Page 138 of Disarm
“If I… ease up,” I say slowly. “What if something happens? What if he reaches for me and I’m not there and that’s… it?”
“That’s the crux of it, isn’t it?” he says. “The belief that you are the last line. The only thing standing between him and the worst.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Because I am.”
He shakes his head gently. “You are one line,” he says. “An important one. But not the only one. His therapist is a line. The safety plan you mentioned on the intake form is a line. The crisis hotline. Your mother. Maybe his father, if he steps up. In a healthy support network, responsibility is shared. Not dropped onto one person like an anvil.”
I think of Mom at the kitchen table, telling me exactly that.
“Maybe,” I say. “That’s not how it feels.”
“I know,” he says. “Feelings are not facts. They’re indicators. They tell us where the fear lives. We can explore those fears without treating them as prophecies.”
I sink back into the couch, staring at the print of the beach on the wall. The waves are calm.
“What are you afraid will happen if you put some of that weight down?” he asks.
He doesn’t write as much as he talks. I appreciate that. Feels like talking to someone who gives a shit, not an interrogation.
“I’m afraid…” I start, then stop, because it sounds ugly in my head.
“Say it,” he prompts softly.
“I’m afraid he’ll think I love him less,” I admit. “That if I say, ‘Hey, I can’t be the one you call every single time you’re on the edge,’ he’ll… hear, ‘You’re a burden,’ and… go. Or… do something worse.”
Luis nods, like that’s exactly the answer he expected. “And is there any part of you,” he asks, “that worries if you let go of that responsibility, you won’t know who you are anymore?”
I look at him sharply. “I’ve been… the strong one since we were kids,” I say slowly. “The one people rely on. My mom. Caleb. Even his dad. ‘Miguel will handle it.’ It’s kind of my… role.”
“If you’re not the handler,” he says, “who are you?”
I hate him a little for asking.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s a good place to start. Not knowing is honest. We can work with that.”
He jots something down, then glances back up. “You mentioned his father,” he says. “And that he recently found out about your relationship.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That was… fun.” I tell him about Harrington at the restaurant, about Caleb calling me his stepbrother, and about the way he went stiff after. About Caleb finally telling Ashton the truth. He said “experimental,” and I wanted to drive to his house and throw his fancy coffee machine out the window.
“And now he wants to talk to you both,” Luis says.
“Yeah,” I say. “On the phone, maybe in person. He says he wants to listen. That he doesn’t ‘agree,’ but he’s ‘learning.’”
“And how does that make you feel?” he asks.
“Like I’m getting called into the principal’s office,” I say. “Except this principal can sue me into oblivion.”
He smiles briefly. “Do you feel responsible,” he asks, “for how his father reacts?”
“Yes,” I say, without pretending otherwise. “If he flips and cuts him off, that’s going to be… framed as my fault. Even if I know that’s bullshit, I’m the variable. The thing that changed.”
“And what’s your fear if that happens?” he asks.
“That Caleb will shatter,” I say bluntly. “His dad is… complicated. But he’s still Dad. Still the one who got him out of that house. Still the one who paid for everything. Losing that…” My throat tightens. “I don’t know what that would do to him. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to hold him through it.”
“Notice,” Luis says quietly, “how quickly you went back to holding.”
